Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“And if they do, so what?” Rhonda’s voice was mocking.

I hadn’t the slightest idea. “What I can’t figure out is, why kill them?” I said. “You must have gone to a lot of trouble—gaining their confidence, stealing their money. You could have blackmailed them, and they couldn’t have done anything about it. So why kill them?”

“You’re grasping at straws, sweetie.”

“Better question still, why set my client up for Knudsen’s murder? Why divert suspicion from Bruce?”

For the first time, Rhonda reacted with something more than detached amusement or indifference. I thought I caught a flash of anger in her eyes. Maybe it was the lightning.

“Obviously, Bruce must’ve done it and set her up,” she said.

“It’s possible, but why didn’t he just plant the gun in her apartment? Why set her up with a box of files that linked his crimes to the murder? In a box from Aces High, no less.”

We stared at each other. The approaching storm boomed in the background, like an invading army. Now and then, a car went by, the driver oblivious to two women staring each other down.

“Bruce didn’t have a motive,” I said. “You did.”

She looked away, her cheeks twitching.

“You resented Melanie. That’s why you set her up.”

“No.” The directness of her response took me aback. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“But you would steal and kill.”

Rhonda laughed, her mouth twisting into a sneer. “Why are you so concerned with those guys? They were shit. They deserved to die.”

“I’m not concerned with them. I’m concerned with my client.”

“She wasn’t involved.”

“Now it’s my turn to ask, how do you know?”

“She’s not the type.”

“I thought you didn’t know her.”

“She was just another victim, OK?” She raked her hair back from her face, revealing a confused expression. “Another Greg Knudsen victim.”

“I thought you didn’t know him well.”

“Everyone knew Greg was trouble. Him and Bruce.”

“So she was a victim. Like Barbara? Like yourself?”

“Yes. We were all victims. And those bastards deserved what they got.”

“And you made sure they got it.”

“Give it a rest, OK? You have nothing.”

“And you’re counting on being gone by the time I have something.”

Rhonda stood there, breathing heavily. Her face was moon-like in its pallor, and her eyes glittered. She pulled a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes from her purse—I couldn’t help but notice the red bull’s-eye on it—and tapped a cigarette out. Placing it between her lips, she dug through her bag until she found a lighter. It flared with a snap in her shaking hands.

“Skip,” I said. “Did he—”

Before I could finish the thought, a car pulled up behind me. I turned. It was Skip behind the wheel of a white Chevy Cavalier. He held a handgun.